


A Word For Every Star

by chemiglee



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemiglee/pseuds/chemiglee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of 24 ficlets, one for every character that has ever been in McKinley's Glee club.  Each ficlet was prompted by a word or a phrase that was randomly generated.</p><p>Please heed TW's as given for individual chapters in the notes preceding the ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Artie/Resolution

Artie doesn’t dream of Lima until New Year’s Eve. That night, Artie dreams of flying, and then falling towards a golden field, yanked by fear. But, just when his panicked, angry self saw the earth too close to his nose, he landed in his mother’s arms. She felt soft as a bundle of feathers. She spun his eight-year-old self around, and kissed his forehead, and then she spoke, low, in his ear: goodbye.

He remembers what he’d told her he’d do, but it goes fuzzy. Artie reaches consciousness before he opens his eyes, but after he finally clears them of gunk, he realizes he’s not alone.

It’s his new family. Sam sprawls on top of the covers on his other side, dead to the world. Tina’s curled up tightly in Kurt’s - well, Santana’s - refurbished dumpster chair. One of Rachel’s stuffed animals serves as a pillow; Artie idly wonders if Tina took it without asking, and then he realizes she did. She’s not a graceful sleeper, either. Mercedes called dibs on the couch last night, serene as Liz in Cleopatra. Blaine crashed in Kurt’s bed, but there are only two sets of footsteps padding through the loft: Rachel and Santana, trying their best to argue quietly amongst five different sets of snores.

By now, New York City traffic is white noise, even while muffled by the falling snow. It’s the light that burns brighter, and Artie has no idea why neither Sam nor Tina are awake yet. 

Cinnamon and apple cider smells waft in. Pretty and festive, but, you know, generic. He’s not used to their taste in candles. With great effort - ugh, stiff arms, creaky shoulders - and a dry mouth, Artie feels for his phone on the nightstand and turns carefully over on his side. Someone’s rolled his wheelchair against the wall and placed his folded glasses on the seat, so Artie has to put the screen close to his face to thumb through his contacts list.

“Hi, Mom,” Artie croaks. His tongue feels thick and furry and his clothes feel warm, clingy, stifling. It didn’t feel like flying, and a sharp pang throbs behind his breastbone. “Happy New Year. I love you.”

“Hi, Artie. Love you too, sweetie.” Clunk, crash. His mom was a zombie in the mornings, and she was liable to pour hot coffee all over the counter or all over the front of her bathrobe unless that bang told her the carafe had found her mug. Hazelnuts. Pecans. Fresh toast and peanut butter. The spidery branches of the maple tree outside their kitchen, dark and webby against a cloudy sky. Less bright, not forgotten. Artie closes his eyes and swallows. She asks, foggily, “How are you doing?” 

“I thought I’d get a head start on my New Year’s resolution. It’s my only one.”

“I knew that’s what it was,” his mom rasps. Artie can hear her smile. He can see her, framed by a camera’s lens, raising the mug to her lips as she inhales the smell. She appreciates it, but her sigh feels melancholy. “I miss you too, Artie, so much. Tell me everything about the party.”


	2. Unique / Married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Angst. Reference to Ryder’s past experience of sexual abuse. Experience of traumatic abuse disclosure.

It’s in that breathless hour or so, right after an amazing performance, and the fresh adrenaline still bubbles through her veins on waves of excitement and happiness, when her phone rings. Unique feels a needleprick of premonition as she answers it, and she’s not completely surprised as to who it turns out to be.

“Hi.”

“Ryder?” She can’t keep the shock and surprise out of her voice. He sounds exactly the same as he did in high school, and _girl, that takes you back, doesn’t it?_

And for sure, by now, it had been years. At first, they’d kept up really frequently, out of sentiment and yes, friendship, and yes, before that, but they’d gone to different colleges in different states, and, as in the natural order of things, Unique got new friends and Ryder got new friends, and the status updates got fewer and fewer. 

And then Ryder dropped the face off the earth. Weirdly, Tina had no information on where he was (when did that child ever have nothing on someone?) Marley and Kitty tried all the numbers they had: no luck. Blaine and Jake came up dry. Sam shrugged, looked sympathetic and patted her hand: “He moved twice, but he changed his number. Sorry.” Life got a lot harder to keep up with, and then came her record deal. And that was a big pile of frustrating and busy and wonderful all at the same time. 

But back to Ryder: Ryder, the same as he ever was, apparently. “It’s me, yeah.” His voice sounded strained, which she can clearly hear even though backstage is even busier after a show than before it. Unique leans back and plays with a rose from the bouquet by the side table. She bites her lips, and the bloom opens up inside her heart, something she hadn’t known for ages, as he continues, hesitating:

“Can we meet up? Tomorrow. I really want to talk to someone. To you.”

“What? Where have you been, mister? Everyone’s been trying to find you, boo. How dare you hide from them?” She gets scoldy, because it’s easier to be scoldy than angry, because he sounds like his best friend just died - _stop it, baby girl, just stop_. She can’t help feeling frustrated, not after all the trouble her friends have been through trying to track him down, but he’d avoided them deftly - like he didn’t want to be found. That was troubling. That hurt.

To lighten the mood, she tries a little laugh, like it’s of no consequence that her high school crush sought her out, trusted her enough to call her up, wanting to talk, but - it doesn’t work, and her heart falls to her feet. He might be in real trouble, and then the worries rush in, block everything else out. She panics at the awkward silence that follows. In the background, Unique hears a raucous party, a thudding base, catcalls. _What in the name of all holy is going on?_

Ryder coughs. “I’ll explain. I promise.” He names a restaurant, a time: Unique writes it down on a notepad, hangs up, and then touches the paper to her lips, closes her eyes.

\- - - - -

Unique dresses up in her finest. She can’t not. She’d been overwhelmingly curious about how Ryder turned out, and it’s just when she’s trailing her finger around the edge of her wine glass, wondering, when a tall, black-coated blur swims into her vision, pulls out the chair opposite hers and sits.

He leans forward, folds his hands in front of her, and looks at her, right in the eyes.. The breath gets knocked out of her. He’s abandoned the Justin Bieber vibe. His shoulders look broader, and his line of chin to jaw to nose is sharply defined, its interesting bumps even more interesting, and dark eyes - what eyes. _Sweet heaven. Wait, you’re mad. You are mad._ “Look, I don’t know how to say this…” he trails off, shifting around in his tux - _wait, his tux? What the everlasting hell?_ \- “but I had to tell someone, I couldn’t do it without talking to someone I trust and - “

On his forehead lies a glimmer of moisture, and when he notices her looking at it he clenches and unclenches his fingers. “Are you going to explain just where in the hell you’ve been for the past ten years?” Unique snaps, flaring her nostrils at being caught, but Ryder rolls on, over the sharpness, and that news knocks her out a second time.

“I was supposed to get married. Today, and I left her. I left her at the altar, like a jerk.”

Her astonishment doesn’t last long. Before she knows, she’s on her feet, looming over him. Her mouth clenches. Her face cracks, and she slaps him. Hard.

Ryder’s face goes stony. Everyone else in the restaurant simmers to stillness, and her voice stings, echoes in the quiet:

“You’re a bastard. _Go to hell_.”

Ryder looks down and fumbles around, blindly, for a paper napkin and water to dip it in. His cheek burns red. She turns, majestically, on her heel, and ignores the scattered claps from that suddenly captive audience. Her heels click fast against the hardwood. Her eyes feel hard and dry, but she’s got to move quickly, and outside, so he won’t see her weep.

\- - - - -

Unique leans against the window glass to catch her breath, wipe away whatever tears will trickle down past her nose, but Ryder has long legs, so he grabs at her arm before she can slide out of his grasp. She tilts her head upward and closes her eyes, but she doesn’t shake him off. She can’t.

“Please,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t sound angry, and his fingers do a little wiggle, a little caress. “Let me talk to you - please.”

“Why should I? You don’t want to talk to anyone else.” Her voice rises. “Do you care about anyone who’s not you? Tina? Jake? Marley? She’s been worried sick!”

“You listened to me - before. Please. Just a few minutes.”

 _So I did_. And suddenly, they’re back at McKinley again: she’s on her laptop, and he’s in the library, secrets filtering through the wireless, and - and that spell of secrecy falls on them again, binds them both. She turns to look at him. Miserable, and hurt. She’s done a lot of asking already, so this request is soft and broken:

“Why?”

“I didn’t love her,” he says, simply. His hand slides down the inside of her arm. “I wanted to. . I wanted to feel something, so I told myself we’d have fun.” He gets a little composure back, but he rubs at his slapped cheek, wincing; Unique curls up the side of her mouth. _He still deserved it, the poor girl_. “Maybe it’d make me less of a failure. I don’t know. I wanted to try the marriage thing. Then, one night, in bed, she turns to me and asks if I want to have kids, and that’s when I knew I didn’t want to have kids with her.”

“How long?”

She’s slowly starting to absorb everything: bits and pieces run in between his fingertips, and then hers, because all of a sudden, they’re holding hands, like children. For comfort. What is, is, she thinks, tiredly (still angry), but beating him down won’t bring him back up. “It’s been a long time. You’re gonna have to give Mama more detail here.”

“A year? Two, including the year we were engaged?” He scratches his head. “I met her, uh, sophomore year at UPenn. English class, but I majored in business. She was - “ he shrugs carelessly - “the kind of girl who took classes for fun. I could never do that, but, ya know, my grades in college are - were - still good. We dated for a long time, but we weren’t, you know, friends.”

Unique laughs a little. He looks over at her and gives her a smile, the old Ryder smile, shaking a bit, because it looked like he was hoping for her approval. It tugs at her heart. “No, honey, you couldn’t do that. And - then?”

He presses his lips together. “I saw her. You know, her. Chris and I were visiting Lima, getting stuff ready for the wedding. She’d gotten out of jail. Walking down my parents’ street, pushing a baby carriage.”

Unique knows who she is, and she clutches his palm tighter right when he decides to press his closer to her flesh. His shoulders slump in. He feels icy and stiff, despite the hot puffs of summertime air brushing by her ankles. “Chris asked me who she was, because I stared at her, and then I couldn’t hold it all in anymore. I yelled it out at her, and at my parents. And - they didn’t believe me.”

“Honey. Oh, honey. I can’t - I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

She sidesteps closer, so they’re touching arms. His white carnation looks fried at the corners, like it’s been sitting in the sun. . “Oh, her?” he mimicks, wobbling. “ ‘I can’t believe you’d make that up, sweetie. She was such a nice girl, and she’s married now, isn’t that nice? She took care of you for years.’ ”Ryder shudders. “I just ran out of there, drove around Lima for hours and hours. I went back to Chris, at the motel, and I could tell she didn’t believe me, either. I stayed with her that night - I was lonely. I said seeing her was like ripping a Band-Aid off, and I was gonna be okay after a while. I stayed with Chris - I thought I didn’t have anyone else.”

It’s like someone’s turned the tap on. Ryder’s talking fast now, like he’s losing time. But - “But you do have people who care.” Her frustration comes roaring back, and he flinches, because he knows it’s true - “You had us. Me, Marley, Blaine, everyone. Why didn’t you find us?”

Ryder sighs, lets go of her hand. Unique feels suddenly cold, but then he puts his arm around her, clutching at her shoulder. The younger Unique would have swooned at that little gesture, and the older Unique’s heart does a flip, but those feelings aren’t important now: she resolutely pushes them aside. It’s time to be here for him.  Even if it hurt her. He looks down at the spotted pavement, wrapped about with hesitation, so when he speaks again, his words drag out. “I know it doesn’t make sense. But - you’d all been to my house - you’d met my parents. I knew you’d all listen to me if I told you - Kitty did when I told her about it the first time - but I didn’t want anything to do with Lima. I moved cities. I changed numbers, I wanted to start over.”

“So that’s it, then,” Unique says softly. “You were scared. You were scared. Hon - “ and then he turns, and puts his other hand on her other shoulder - “It’s okay, Ryder. We’ll get you some help. You’re okay -” and then he envelops her in his arms, clutches at her fine clothes and cries, heaving, into her beautiful updo, until he’s finally empty. People walk by and steal curious glances at them - a famous recording artist and some random guy in a tux sobbing on her like his life depended on it - but Unique doesn’t care. Unique is, first and foremost, there for anyone who needs her. Even if it hurt, and this did.

\- - - - -

“Thanks,” Ryder says, at last. He straightens up and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I hate myself for leaving Chris there at the altar, but - but I couldn’t marry her.”

“No,” she says, slowly, “you couldn’t.” She brushes the stray waves out of her eyes, fallen completely out of their pins. “Leaving her there like that wasn’t right, either. You need to go clean that mess right up.”

He grimaces. “I don’t want to. I - “ and then Unique shoots him a glare - “Okay. you’re right. I do. Another mess.”

“And therapy,” Unique says firmly.

“Maybe,” he says, eyes shifting.

“Yes, _absolutely_.”

“That’s what I have you guys for. But - are - are they mad?”

“Just be honest, and everything else follows. We were all in Glee, remember?” His eyes light up. “We’ll always be here for each other, even if one of us disappears from sight _with no explanation_.”

“I deserved that.” Ryder said. He gives her that half-smile, half-smirk which still tugs at her heart. “I missed you guys. All of you. You. Catch me up on that sweet recording deal.”

“Unique needs to snag a piece of that fine chocolate cheesecake first,” she sasses, enough so he won’t see the hope flaring up in her eyes - stop it, baby girl, stop it - but his answering grin feels humorous, warm, and soft. _Even if he doesn’t care like I do, at least I’ve got him back in my life_. He tugs at her sleeve playfully: “Let’s go inside.”


	3. Blaine/I'm Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Miscarriage and grief. Reference to the Shooting Star gun incident.

Blaine knocks, peering intently into the spyhole like she’ll feel his concern. “I’m here,” he calls.

No answer.

He tries banging on the door with the flat of his hand. Maybe their neighbors are sound sleepers. “Tina? Tina, open up.”

No answer.

“I know you're there.” He slides closer, so his voice will penetrate better through the door. “Let me in.”

A strangled sob. “I don’t want to,” she moans, from somewhere in the vicinity of his rain-splotched loafers, low down. Her voice is blurry. Blaine imagines she’s curled herself up on the other side, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, head on her forearms, just like he did - he remembers, when Becky’s gun went off twice, and he thought he’d never see his family or Kurt or Britt or Tina, ever again. Her puffy eyes would be circled by red, her hair mussed, and snot - she’d need a tissue; Blaine grabs the package in his coat pocket, ready to hand it over. Ready to help her feel right again.

Being the guiding light for everyone takes its toll, and he’s exhausted. They’d been in twelve-hour dress rehearsals for his first show. Written by him. His. It was all or nothing, racing towards the finish line, and they didn’t even know if they’d turn a profit or get good reviews at this point. Everyone was running on a near empty tank.

He and the other producers can’t have one of their stars breaking down now. But, more than that: Tina’s more than a commodity. She’s Tina, complicated, caring, willful, smart, and vulnerable. She needs him, just as he needs her, sometimes. Even if they don’t see eye to eye on this issue - and on so many others.

“Yes, you do, Queen T. Come on, let me in.” Blaine tries a different tack, infuses his voice with wheedling charm to keep it light: “The storm’s whipping up outside, and I’m soaked. I’d love to come in and see you, have some coffee. We can talk, like old times.”

“Mike’s so upset.” Her voice is hollow. “And I saw you today. You coached me.”

“Honey,” Blaine says, coaxingly, through the door, “he loves you. He wouldn’t have called me if he didn’t, and I’m your friend, not just your coach.”

“I know he loves me,” Tina moans, through the wood, and even though she should know Mike does love her, it’s doing nothing to reassure or comfort. He remembers. No one like Tina knew just how much of a lonely struggle it had been when he and Kurt were broken up (the first time), even though he knew he would survive. And no one like Blaine knew just how inconsolable Tina could be when she was sad, even if she knew she’d grow stronger in the process.

“Let’s talk about it, Tina. You can do it. Stand up.”

“I - I can’t.”

Her despair blows through like the wind, so Blaine shifts tactics. He squares his shoulders, shores his voice up to be firm and resolute. “I saw you take your Prom Queen crown back when everyone was laughing at you.” Blaine crinkles the Kleenex package up in his hand. “They wanted to push you down and you didn’t let them. If you can do that, you can do this. Stand up, lady.”

(Blaine doesn’t think about all the times he’d been whittled down. It still hurts. Some wounds don’t ever completely heal, but what that’s all taught him is that the act of living is a also act of bravery. Life will throw everyone into the shit, and when it does, the first thing you have to do is to stand up. Work out how to get back in the game. But he also knows it’s hard to reach that hidden reservoir of strength that lies inside every person, and sometimes it hurts to stand.)

Tina makes a grunt, undershot by pain. The chain rattles, a click, two clicks, as the deadbolt loosens.

She must have changed clothes already. She holds her left arm across her lower belly when she opens the door at last, and Blaine, who’d unconsciously been leaning forward against it, almost falls right on top of her. Tina’s lips twist together to hold in another cry, and when he realizes a fraction of a second later that she’s letting him in, he regains his balance and gingerly puts both her outstretched arms around his back.

“Blaine.” She blinks in the sudden brightness of the hall. Curled up against his chest, she looks up. Her mouth hangs open. She looks like she can’t believe he’s here. “Oh. Blaine...”

“Of course I'm here,” Blaine says. He puts a hand on the back of her neck and steps inside, scrapes his loafers on the welcome mat. The yellow light frames her head in a soft halo. “I couldn’t not be here, right? You’re one of my stars, and you’re you.”

“I’m me,” Tina says softly, in wonderment. Blaine pushes the door shut. “You helped me get here. I’ll always love you for that. But - but I’m not a mom. I wanted to be a mom, and I lost her. Oh - “ and her face crumples again, but her breathing has regulated itself somewhat, and she doesn’t fall again into tears.

“You know I care, and you know the Tina I know is already perfect, right?” he teases.

“I know,” and her eyes flash; some retort bubbles hotly up to her lips, but it’s quelled before he can hear it. “But I still want to be a mom _and_ a star. What’s wrong with having everything? You do.”

Blaine suppresses the words before he shapes them. _I’m happy, but that doesn’t mean you’ll be happy._ “Yes, but you need to know you’re wonderful as you are.”

Tina sweeps her free arm around the apartment. Mike’s gone out, Blaine knew, out to the pharmacy around the block ( _you talk to her, Blaine, only you can_ ). “But I come in, here, with Mike, and - “ four chairs surround their flea-market kitchen table - “there’s someone missing. Someone else should be here. There’s space for a crib, see, in that corner. Mike thinks it’s too soon and that's why - why this happened - but lots of people are young parents. Why not me?”

“There’s space for a bookcase there, too,” he prods. Raindrops scatter onto their faded rug from the edges of his favorite scarf. “Or a dog bed. Or a sewing table. _Or_ a crib.”

“Why can’t I have a baby?” she snaps, temper flared.

“It’s not that you can’t have a baby,” Blaine persists. “You and Mike literally just got married. It's that you're not finished becoming you.”

The tension lifts off her slumped shoulders, and she crinkles her brow, opening her mouth to shoot back, but - she snaps it shut, throws him a pointed glance. _Maybe you're right, Blaine._ But she’s Tina, so she has to poke at him to make sure. He steels himself for it, but when she finally answers, she sounds unexpectedly light. “Not just because I’m in your show?”

“Of course not,” Blaine scoffs, and then decides to tease her. “Well, it’s a part of it -

“Blainey! I knew it!” she laughs, but it’s forced. “Well - “ Tina pauses - “you know we’re not done with this conversation yet, right? I can _totally_ hide my baby bump with some draping.”

He shakes his head. Tina is a stubborn creature. And yes, it’s her body, and her and Mike’s decision, but anyone can tell by looking around their place that they’re struggling to make it, and Blaine knows, from experience, that it’s tough to be a parent even in better financial circumstances, in cheaper cities than New York. And - he’s not sure Tina’s ready, and that's really why he thinks she should wait.

(It'd still be okay if they didn't. Blaine and Kurt would babysit, and take the child to the park, shower it with gifts - but he's not best friends with her baby, he's best friends with Tina.)

He shrugs, smiles. Mike will be in soon, so they can all at least talk this over together, and besides - “Can I take my coat off? It’s freezing, and I can go finally make this coffee.”

“Thanks,” she says, unexpectedly, ducking her head into the closet for a hanger. She offers him a dazzling wide grin. “Thanks. I knew you’d be here for me. I’d be here for you. And sorry for not being a better host - “

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.  Honestly It doesn’t. “I’ll be here. Ready to listen and help you out.” _Even if we don’t agree, you’ll always have me, Queen T._


	4. Rachel/Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character death. Brief mention of Finn. Grief after Finn’s passing. Funeral scene - but not Finn’s.

Her funeral is stuffed full of Broadway luminaries. Her day care business educated almost everyone’s children, everyone who’s here.

When she was sixteen, or about the same age Beth was now, Rachel would’ve been so star-struck to meet them, just like the time she and Finn met Patti Lupone. There’s a little bit of Lima still nestled inside Rachel Berry, so the fact that they’re all here, the fact that they nod to her, squeeze her hand, send flowers and stop to talk, is still unbelievable. Even better, they’re actually good friends - they’re people, like her.

Lima Rachel used to imagine all the flowery accolades they’d deliver at her graveside. Her skin would own its flawless pallor, and dark hair would flow endlessly over her thin shoulders. She’s one of a kind, they’d whisper. She owned Fanny, Evita, Laurie, Elphaba. She lived inside their skins.

(Her body of work would stand the test of time, warmed by a heart that loved as fiercely as she’d lived.)

Rachel shakes herself out of it. Shelby has a sister in New York, it turns out, so she’s going to take Beth in. Rachel had played with the thought of offering herself as a guardian. (But how would I manage? she wondered. What about colleges and - and making room in my new place, wouldn’t she want to live elsewhere? Could she handle a teenager?) And in the end, she’d decided her lifestyle just wouldn’t fit with Beth’s. They barely knew each other. She’d babysat Beth a few times, but Rachel doubted she’d remember. That was a long, long time ago.

Lima Rachel had always wanted children: an elegant daughter with a powerful voice and a son - but she cuts that line of thinking off with a practiced, efficient little twist. (That ability had taken a lot of practice, and in the meantime, a lot of hurt.) It was too late, and after - after the shock, the torrent, Rachel had reached in and owned her emotions as deftly as she owned that stage. She put that passion into her work and it had paid off. Meanwhile, Beth had grown into her own person, and there she is, so strong, straight-backed, black-draped and tearless.

She looks like Quinn, but she has Puck’s defiant eyes. Or maybe that’s Puck lingering about her clenched jaw, and Quinn’s eyes, glaring down at the gravestone, reading nothing.

Everyone’s dispersed, except for a few stragglers talking in hushed tones around the grave. The priest has already left. Rachel quietly steps up, touches Beth by the arm as the girl looks at the black polished granite, then down at the heap of mottled brown dirt marking Shelby’s final resting place. Fluffy blonde curls pile over her shoulders, bright against her dark coat.

“Hi, Beth.”

Beth half-turns, and Rachel hears a hitch of surprised breath. “Rachel.”

“Are you okay?” Rachel asks quietly. She wishes she’d dabbed at her eyes before trying to talk to her. It feels like she's intruding on her grief, but she knows that unemotional look, that silent plea, the anger she’s holding in. Regret, always regret. The feeling of time that’s run out, too soon.

“I’m okay,” Beth says stonily.

Rachel fumbles around for something innocuous to say. Lima Rachel would have just blurted a random thing out. This Rachel’s softened a bit, so she goes for a simple social convention, a thing Beth could bow out of if she didn’t want to go. “Let’s go get coffee,” Rachel says. She nudges at the girl’s elbow, held in so tight at her side.

“Why?” Beth asks, simply.

Shadow fade greyish into Beth’s skin, underneath her eyes. And then, she’s not just Beth, she’s a girl who’s lost someone, and - and Rachel’s known loss. Beth was Shelby’s world, and even though they hadn’t kept up much at all Rachel feels, instinctively, that Shelby was Beth’s world, too. Her heart throbs in sympathy. She still remembers what that’s like.

“Because I think you need some.” Rachel answers, just as simply.

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you,” Beth snaps. A groundskeeper looks up, makes to approach them: Rachel waves him imperiously aside.

“Shelby was my birth mother, and I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her,” Rachel retorts, before she can think it through. She was trying to be kind, wasn’t she? But - Rachel, her mother just died. Come on. She amends it hastily before storm clouds gather over Beth’s brow, adopts a sweeter tone: “I’m so sorry. That wasn’t kind of me, and I of all people would understand how hard grief can wear you down.”

Beth narrows her eyes, but she doesn’t move away. “She was your birth mother, but she was my mom, and nobody gets how that feels.”

There it is. It falls on the grass beneath them, like a stone. “She was,” Rachel says simply, “to both of us, but she loved you - she still loves you.” Her voice gathers steam. She still remembers, yes. “And you see her in your dreams, running away before you can tell her you’d do anything to bring her back - but you can’t. I didn’t even have her as a mom, but you did. I wish I knew her that way.”

It dawns on the younger woman’s face. Beth doesn’t smile back, but she realizes something and that insight leaks through the cracks. She lets Rachel slip her fingers through her black-coated arm.

“You need some coffee, too." Beth makes it a plain, simple fact.

“Yes,” Rachel says. “And after, I’ll take you to your Aunt Shanna’s.”

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Beth blurts out ungraciously. Vulnerability quivers underneath her smile. She wants a kindred spirit. "I love Aunt Shanna, but - but I think you understand it better.”

Rachel smiles at her, placing her gloved fingers on top of Beth’s. Beth gives them a light, tentative squeeze. “Of course you can. You can stay as long as you want.”


	5. Mike/Crush

The reason why Mike danced alone in his room for years was mostly about his father’s disapproval. The other part of the reason, maybe like 30% of the reason, had to do with Santana.

Santana is gorgeous, and unafraid, and smart. Well, not smart in the way his parents define it. She gets good grades, but she’s people smart. She can navigate a crowd and it parts for her. Everyone falls in line, taking their cues. 

Yeah, sometimes the things Santana says are mean and unfair (they're afraid of that sharp tongue and sly smile), but Mike thinks she just wants to push people away. You can forgive her for that. It’s really tough to be a minority kid in this town. It's hard to be the other, and the others need to stick together. Not that Santana needs to. Santana’s everything he isn’t, so she’s perfect.

One day, after football practice, he spies Santana, all by herself, in the little studio that their middle school mocked up for the cheerleaders to use as a dance space. There's no music. She's glaring into the mirror from the barre, and then she stumbles. Badly. She’s clearly out of practice. But she gets up, slowly, awkwardly, and navigates another classic plie. Again. Again. Once, twice, fumbling as her muscles struggle to remember, creakingly so. 

Fury crosses her softly rounded face (eyes dark and secret as wells, smooth lips, so kissable), and then her chin jerks up, ponytail bobbing. She curses in Spanish, flings her ballet wrap around her waist and kicks her bag closer to the door. Her petal-pink leotard clings to her willowy form just so. 

Quick, before she can see you! Mike gulps and races away, down the hall. Her (now their) secret bowls him over. Santana dances alone sometimes, just like him.

So he makes silent circles around in his room, alone, in front of the mirror, and imagines holding Santana straight up in his arms. He'll lift her up by the waist and she'll arch her back, arms straight, eyes up to face a perfect blue sky. Then, maybe she’d let him kiss her. Maybe she'll let him just cup her jaw in his palms, let him stroke the sides of her chin with his thumbs, trace the edges of her ears with scared fingertips and down to her neck. Maybe she’d let him tell her exactly how he feels; how he’d love to set a secret picnic on a red-checked tablecloth in the grass, lay out sandwiches and fancy coffee drinks and a rose in a pretty glass vase, just for her.

He doesn’t do the poem thing, and he doesn’t dare give her a card for Valentine’s. He sits in class, near the front, and he dreams of the day she’ll choose to sit next to him. On the evening of the day she does, he closes his eyes, alone, in his room, and dedicates his dance to her.

It’s not as if he doesn’t know. She looks at pretty girls in the same way he does. He doesn’t hate her for that, not at all. After they get married, Santana can kiss all the pretty girls, because Santana’s perfect, and she deserves to get everything she wants. He knows her better than anyone, even if she doesn’t know herself.


	6. Tina/Time

Tina’s entire face hurt. The day blared in between the dusty slats of her window blinds, so she turned her back, rolled over, and yanked the covers up over half over her head. Her throat was incredibly scratchy, but looming outside of her comforter were responsibilities and disappointments and light. Or she could use another brain, one that wouldn’t shatter in a million pieces if she kept on overthinking all the reasons why or why not to get out of bed.

Getting out meant she’d have to face the second mistake. She slapped the other side of the blue-and-black sheets, and then the other pillow, and if he was still there she’d have smacked him full in the face unceremoniously with the palm of her hand. At least she could put off having to talk to him until later. Her searching hand did, however, find a pair of sunglasses on the bedside table, and she fumbled to put them on. It smelled stale. Tina grimaced, but opening the window was just way too much work.

“Those things are entirely wrong for the shape of your face,” someone sing-songed. “You need a serious life overhaul.” Tina could hear him shake his finger and every jab corresponded with a dull, achy throb. Skulls should come in one disjointed piece, so her bones wouldn’t crash into each other like tectonic plates.

“Please stop, Kurt,” Tina groaned. “I love it when we play What Not to Wear, but not this morning. Wait - “

She sat straight up in bed and flung the glasses off of her head. He was faultlessly dressed: subtly striped gray pants, lilac dress shirt, blue paisley scarf flung about his shoulders. A silver feather pin glinted at his collar. He always did have a gift for accessorizing. He sat back in her mother’s high-backed lounge chair, legs crossed, An infinitely amused smirk danced across his lips. Tina looked down at the ripped men’s t-shirt she’d apparently chosen to sleep in. Her jaw locked, her eyes flashed, two plus two made four, and then -

“What are you doing in my apartment, Kurt?” Tina’s voice croaked, but it rose with horror. “Wait. _Did you watch me sleep_?”

“It’s not like I’ve never seen you sleep. We used to do Friday nights at Rachel’s house, remember?” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, chin in hands. “Then we’d go to the mall and Mercedes and I would try to talk you out of yet another woolen hat.”

“Yeah, but the last time I saw you guys was Thanksgiving. It’s January.” The phone screen glare did not help her headache, and she sat up abruptly, suddenly awake: “Shit, it’s January 1st.”

“Maybe another branch of the Lima Express runs out to Chicago?” Kurt teased.

“Ugh,” and with that, Tina flopped back down in bed. “I’m tempted to throw this phone at you. Get to the point.”

“Fine,” Kurt said. He got up - floated up? he didn’t make any footsteps - and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed closest to her. “The truth is, I’m not Kurt.”

“How does that make any sense? Am I still drunk?” Tina pushed the glasses up her nose.

“You wish you still were, party girl. If I didn’t choose an appropriate vessel, I’d just be a cloud of shimmery talking dust.” Not-Kurt half-turned towards her and bopped her irreverently on the nose.

“I take self-defense,” she said, quasi-dangerously, and balled up her hands into fists. “Don’t think I can’t kick a shimmery talking dust cloud’s shimmery, talking ass.”

“No ass-kicking is necessary today, Miss Tina. I’m just here to show you a few things.”

“Are you my guardian angel?” Tina mocked. She sat up in bed to cross her arms. “Here to show me what everyone’s life would be like if I didn’t exist?”

“Not really,” Not-Kurt grinned. “This isn’t going to go exactly like your mom’s favorite Christmas movie, so - “ and Tina’s eyes finally popped open as a starry rift in space-time yawned open at the foot of the bed and the reason why he was there sort of made sense - “let’s get started.”

\- - - - -

“I feel like a stalker,” muttered Tina. Blaine, Britt, Unique and her, past-her, kept on singing and dancing as if there weren’t two otherworldly visitors lingering in aisle seats halfway up the auditorium rows. They couldn’t see much of Artie except the back of his head, but Tina remembered the lights bouncing off his glasses and how beautiful she - everyone, Tina, everyone - sounded. “Why’d you pick this moment to come back to first?”

“It’s a defining moment for you,” said Not-Kurt. He patted Tina’s knee and pulled out a tray of lattes. She scrunched up her nose. “They can’t see either of us. That’s one benefit of being an angel. You fly, you’re invisible when you want to be, you take on incredible human forms, and you play with alternate universes like toys.”

"But you already know what happened,” Tina objected. After her drink scalded her tongue, she scowled and thrust it back. He shook his head at her and crossed her arms, and Tina had to hold it in her hands instead. “Senior year was my year, just like Rachel promised me, right before we won Nationals.”

Not-Kurt shrugged. “In this timeline, you come in third in JBI’s poll.” He tilted his head and gave her another catlike, smug, too-smooth smile, “Let’s just say you were really put off by that. You don’t like that, do you?”

“You and Rachel would have raised hell if either of you got third in anything.” She huffed and drank the rest of her coffee. “Winning the title of New Rachel was what I deserved after all those years of swaying in the background, sewing costume after costume. I’m glad I didn’t lose Call Me Maybe.”

“I’ll remember you said that.” Tina couldn’t figure out why Not-Kurt sounded so smug. He snapped his fingers impatiently and both their drinks disappeared. “Off we go.”

\- - - - -

Not-Kurt was eating cheese pizza. The house was packed full of stolid Lima citizens, coughing in that hacking way that carries exceedingly well in a performance space. Tina recognized the carnival set of Grease, just as it was three years ago. It rocked, side to side, and in front of it, the Pink Ladies and the grease monkeys swirled around and paired off, one by one. It was obvious who they were meant to be with. Tina scowled. Not-Kurt cast a glance at her, but he said nothing.

And then there she was, strutting on stage like she owned it, hips waving with newfound confidence, and that black catsuit clung to her curves like a second skin. Tina looked down and realized that same catsuit was holding her in, so tightly that she was afraid she might burst. Wow, Tina thought, I looked hot. The audience roared its approval, and then, on a signal from Sugar, she dropped the cigarette and smashed it under her stiletto heel. Jake flung his arms out and wailed: “I got chilllls…”

“You look hot,” Not-Kurt said, mouth full. “You still do, see?”

“This is a terrible choice of wardrobe,” Tina whispered, shocked. The spandex left nothing to the imagination - nothing. She wished she’d grabbed a coat before stepping into the abyss with Not-Kurt, and settled for crossing her arms. “And don’t you know you can’t eat in the Sue Sylvester Civic Pavilion?”

“What the - ? Oh, right, you don’t know. Anyway - “ and Not-Kurt produced a kerchief and dabbed at his lips - “no one can see us, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, why are we here?”

“Work it out, Tina dear. You don’t learn unless you do the work, or that’s what old Mrs. Schimmelhertzler told us in middle school English. What did you do after Grease wrapped? Every night?”

“What did I do? I went home. Duh. Or, when Mike was in town, we’d just go have sex. ”

“Which I’m not going to bring us back to because of my sensitive eyes and impressionable memory. It was a lot of this, wasn’t it?”

Not-Kurt snapped his fingers. And there they were, in her old bedroom back in Lima: flat purple on the walls, a curtain of tiny chains around her bed, white painted inset desk, and past-Tina sat there, laptop closed. There was a stack of novels next to it, but she wasn’t reading.

“It wasn’t always like this,” Tina objected. “I went to Artie’s party on opening night, and Finn’s party on closing night - “

“But the rest of the cast would get together, out of rehearsals, and - “

“- and I wasn’t invited. So? I was perfectly nice to everyone in Grease, and we worked hard together. When you’re different, you’re special, and that means you have to be alone.” She put her chin up and glared at Not-Kurt, straight in the eye.

“Sounds familiar. But what about - people who’ll pick you up when you’re feeling down on yourself?. Who’ll run lines with you?. People who’ll look you in the eye and help you see the truth.”

“It’s not that important.”

“Yes, it is. Look at yourself.”

Past Tina had gone to bed, and the pillow was wet underneath her cheek. Tina turned away.

\- - - - -

“So we’re back here, then?”

“For now. We’re going somewhere else in a minute.” Not-Kurt ran a finger across the spines of her college textbooks. “Do you even like political science?”

“It’s real-life. I can go into law. Go into Congress. I’ll be a representative or a senator. It’s either that or - “ she smiled wryly - “acquire an island, build a massive fortress, and become a villain.”

“Now you know that’s been done before. Dig deeper..”

“I’m not going into poli sci just as a stepping stone to bigger things,” Tina said sharply. She sounded rehearsed - maybe a little too vehement. “I’m learning about government systems, and how they work, and where they came from. So they - we - I don’t make the mistakes made in the past, especially in women’s rights and LGBTQ rights. So I can change the - my - our future.”

“So acting’s not real life.” Not-Kurt didn’t make it a question. He found the lounge chair again, but this time he made to stand behind it and almost fell over a box of pictures lying open on the floor - “oof! Don’t you clean up in here ever?”

“Only when I have to.” Tina admitted.

“See, this is real life, and you claim your passion is changing the world - for real - but when you talk about it, I don’t believe you. See?”

“I chose it. And I enjoy it, and I’ll still get to act.”

“There’s a difference between enjoying something you’re sort of interested in and enjoying something you love.”

Tina shrugged. “Acting’s not practical.”

“You didn’t care about that in high school. And?”

Tina gave Not-Kurt a sidelong look. “Well…”

Not-Kurt looked pointedly around at Tina’s blank walls. “And?”

“And there are significant barriers to my success in the performing arts, given my identity as an Asian-American woman and people’s preconceptions of what fields I should be choosing to enter.” She glared at him.

“I agree they’re there, but, uh, rules? Meant to be broken? It’s not like you’d exactly be alone, and you need to stop the emotional surface stuff because it's wasting time.”

There didn’t seem to be any harm in indulging Not-Kurt, and Tina admitted it felt like a relief to finally talk to someone outside of her own sphere of existence, even if he was a non-corporeal being. “I thought of trying, but maybe it - got lonely my senior year.”

“Ahhhhh, there it is,” Not-Kurt said triumphantly.

“I lost touch with everyone. Never made real connections with the friends I had, like Rachel and, well, real Kurt. And so I just went somewhere else after graduation. I picked a field I really was interested in, but - “

“But yeah. What was his name again?” Not-Kurt pointed to the other side of the bed.

“Some guy named Chad,” she said. “He’s in some of my classes. We just see each other on and off.”

“No connections, right.”

“It hurts too much. Yeah - I - I might have acted a little too hardcore diva-ish in my senior year. I guess people got put off.”

“Maybe because you pushed them away, too. Didn’t act like you needed anyone.”

“Maybe.” Tina’s face twisted. "So why act if no one’s gonna come see you?”  
He sighed. “You want to change that?”

“Why, are you going to wave your wand and make all of this disappear?” Tina jeered.

“You’re not happy. Don’t you feel like your life right now is an inconceivable mess?”

“So does everyone. Why go and change my life?”

“Well, it’s not for completely unselfish reasons but… why not make things right?”

“Won’t it fuck up space-time or whatever?”

Not-Kurt shrugged. “It’ll stretch time out. It’ll feel like your senior year is the longest school year in the history of the world, but if you can deal with that, then yes, you can make a change. Be the person you were supposed to be, because - “ Not-Kurt pointed at her blank walls - “you are not supposed to live like this.”

“Fuck it,” Tina said. “It’s not like I love it here. And things’ll be completely different?”

“Yes,” said Not-Kurt. “You won’t have any memory of your past in this timeline, blah blah blah blah blah, and no one you know here will have any memory of you. Records will erase themselves. Just do me a favor, will you?”

“I guess I could.”

“Take care of Blaine.”

Tina blinked. “Your ex-boyfriend? Why? Uh - here - I guess - he moved to LA after you broke up. He’s a TV producer.”

“Right. Just take care of him. Be his friend.”

“Uh, I’m not going to remember what happens in this timeline and you want me to remember that? How’s that gonna work?”

“You’ll remember this, because I asked you to. We’re friends, right? We’re actually friends in every timeline. So, are we going to do this or what?”

“Mess up timelines? Why the fuck not?” Tina grinned. “It might be fun. Do I need to take anything?”

“Just your fabulous self.” The rift opened up; Not-Kurt stuck his foot inside and gestured for her to follow.

\- - - - -

Tina looked around at her high school bedroom. Another Tina was lying asleep. She looked utterly peaceful. Rested.

“You just step into her and go with the flow and be absolutely true to yourself in the year that follows, or this isn’t going to work at all. Don’t compromise. You want to perform, so perform.”

“I’ll try,” she said uncertainly, “but what if I fuck it all up again?”

“I don’t think you will, but trying’s all I ask. Oh, I forgot, there’s a price.”

“What?” Tina asked, as she approached the bed. She mentally prepared herself. No more of this Tina, but she was still giving up the happy days, the beautiful memories, the times in this life when things felt right. But everything's got a price, right?

Not-Kurt met her eyes and nodded in agreement at her. “Yes, they do. And on top of that, you get to be an angel too. It’s a part-time gig, nights only. It’s part of the deal.”

“To who?”

“Uhhhh…” Not-Kurt flipped through a notepad - “A girl named Marley? She’s at Thurston High School in north Lima. You have to convince her to go to McKinley for sophomore year.”

“You did not tell me this was going to involve overtime, but…” Tina shrugged - “Okay. Do I get a how-to-be-an-angel manual or something?”

“Once you say yes, it’s all arranged. In conscious time, you won’t have to lift a finger. Just do your thing. When you’re slipping around as an angel in the time stream, you’ll know what to do.”

“This stuff is messy. I thought time was supposed to be linear and neat.”

“It’s a mess. But for everything to work out - so we're all where we should be - we have to make that year count. That year is important. And if you go talk to Marley you’ll be doing your part. So go, Tina. Go get ‘em.”

“I will. I’ll try.” Tina passed a hand over the other Tina’s arm. It felt like a magnetic force was drawing them together, but she tried to resist it, remembered she should give him a hug to thank him. She turned back. He blew her a kiss, but before she could move back towards him, he smoothed out, like a sand-castle washed away by an oncoming wave. “Make me proud. Just don’t forget, Tina.”

“Bye, Kurt. I’ll see you later.”

His voice vibrated in her ears. “Be you and everything else will follow, etc.”

\- - - - -

Once he was gone - once it was just them, lit only by the streetlights outside her parents’ house in Lima and the tiny nightlight in the corner, Tina looked down on Other-Tina.

She looked at her hair, spread across the pillow, and listened to the soft murmurs she made in her sleep. She was younger, and her skin felt smoother, and she smelled fresh. Like laundry, warm from the dryer - like possibilities - like change.

Tina balled up her doubts and threw them out. She was starting to drift - she was feeling sleepy. She closed her eyes. Let go. Let go. Let - go - go - _go - goodbye_ \- Tina took in a deep breath of fresh air, felt a breeze on her cheek, loomed over Other-Tina, and fell inside.


	7. Sam/Blackboard

Sometimes, Sam’s teachers do the thing where they call you up to the blackboard and make you read or write shit out.

In years past, he’d flash a grin at the cute teachers, and sometimes it worked long enough for them to smile back and pass him over for later. It’s not because he doesn’t like the attention, when he presents; it’s because he wants everyone to like him, and that means looking good in all respects. In school stuff, too, even though he’s going to be, you know, a model.

He’s not going to avoid being called on today, but that’s all right. It’s his turn to present his paper for English, and everyone pitched in to help him flesh it out.

(“It’s ‘your’ here and ‘you’re’ there,” Tina pointed out. She grabbed an apple slice off of Sam’s tray. “But I didn’t think Lady Macbeth was manipulating her husband. She was ambitious because it was a man’s world and it was the only way she’d get ahead. Afterward, she felt guilty because of her role in Banquo’s murder.”

“She pushed him into it,” Sam argued. “If she hadn’t, Macbeth would have stayed alive and none of this would have happened.” Tina scowled and muttered, “misogyny”, under her breath.

“They both wanted to be king and queen, but he didn’t think he could get the support until she encouraged him to do it,” Blaine pointed out. He shook his head at Tina and poked Sam in the ribs. “That’s just fact.”

“That’s just - “ Tina huffed - “anyway, even though I don’t agree with everything you said, I liked what you wrote about the witches and the role of evil in the play. That is good.”

Sam had reached over and ruffled her hair, and Tina smirked, made a creaky witchy _hee - hee - hee!_ , which made them all laugh. Afterward, Blaine had found a fresh piece of notebook paper, and he’d written out all of his answers in good. Then he’d re-checked Sam’s grammar and spelling, Artie had made him practice his diction, and then Sam was ready to go.)

“Sam, your presentation is up,” said old Mrs. Schimmel. “Please share with us your insights on Macbeth.” She pursed her lips and looked down at her clipboard, shot him a critical glance.

In years past, the younger Sam might have stood up there, against the yellow chalk, and stammered, ashamed, because he hadn’t prepared. Or he’d have struggled to read his chicken scratch and then - humiliated - the teacher would make him come in after school to present to her, alone. Or he’d have broken out an impression and distracted everyone with McConaughey long enough that everyone forgot what they’d called him up for.

But this was a new day, and a new Sam. A new, confident, unafraid Sam. He was gonna rock this thing. He trotted out his golden smile and leapt out of his seat, paper in hand. “Sure thing, Mrs. Schimmel. I gotcha. I’ve got a lot of things to say.”


	8. Quinn/Played

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Marital infidelity. Revenge fantasies. Discussion of a canon student-professor relationship. Quinn was (is) of age, but Yale University has an explicit rule against this. 
> 
> This is a low point in Quinn's life, and I've written it as such. She is not okay.

“We’ve worked it out. I can’t leave her.” He wrings his hands, watery blue eyes pleading for her understanding. “I’m sorry, it’s over - “

 _Smack_ -

\- the slap pushed him off his heels and back, so he staggered, arms flailing, to a chair. His cheek flushed scarlet. He looked more surprised than hurt.

“You and I, we can talk about this - “

She spits it out, snarling like an angry cat, and it’s the most satisfying syllable Quinn’s ever heard. “No.”

\- - - - -

On the morning after John breaks up with her (after she gives him what he deserved), she lies in bed and eyes the box cutter she bought on the way home.

She’d rather he catch her in the act, so he could know exactly who was doing it. She replays it in her head, over and over, to savor the moment. That battered Chevy will hit the pavement, horror will twist his face, he’ll drop his briefcase, and that pipe will fall from his lips, break on the ground.

At first, the thought of revenge like this is sweet enough to sustain her, but this endless loop eventually gets stale. So she ups the ante and strolls up and down the aisles of the hardware store. She trails her fingers up and down a tire iron. His windshield would make such a satisfying crack.  Better to think of taking a tire iron to his car than frantic quickies, in his office, before class (her class) or fumbling moments on a ratty blanket in his backseat.

John would make a show of taking off his wedding ring. “I’m not really married to her, I’m married to you.” After he came, they’d talk about moving to another college town, right after the inevitable scandal broke. John would teach again, and she’d finish her drama program at a different school.

Maybe they’d get married. Lots of people did it, fell in love this way, but not them, as it turned out.

It was easier to do this than to admit, facing the mirror, that she was again letting a man define her even though there was no reason why she should. She's beautiful, and accomplished, and had the world by the tail, but Quinn refused to put a shape around the words that admitted her weakness. There was still the issue of getting back at him somehow, before she could bring herself to let go. Get back at him or die - so she settles for a late night phone call, and thus finds a sharper way to cut him out of her life.

“Hello?” she said. Jimmy Kimmel blared in the background of her call, and the audience laughed. Mindless and bouncy.

“I’d like to tell you something,” Quinn said evenly. She ignored the TV and the prick of conscience that followed. “John’s been a bad boy.”

\- - - - -

John and his wife move away quickly. _It’s time to move on, Quinn._ She should be happy. She’s just about back to normal. Back to classes and activities and her friends, without all the shadowy entanglement that a secret affair provides, thank God. (And that was another part of her life she should get back to: get back to church.) All in all, time to go back to being flawless.

Of course it bothers her a little, those few straggly bits of anger left over.  And one day, she settles for something childish. She’s not proud of it, and she tells no one, but it's too much of a guilty pleasure not to do.

Mouth set, she stabs pins through each corner of his picture. Every time, she picks a different target: his bland smile, the square-cut jaw, and his slightly crooked nose (once charming, now not), and that ridiculous green checkered tie that she'd once tied for him, right after - well, time not to think of such things - ,but she never does nail him to the wall, not once. Still, the thought of it is soothing balm on her hurt. Sort of. Frustrated, she goes over to pick up her fallen darts and comes face to face with the calendar on her bulletin board: February 14th is circled in red.

That’s what she’ll do instead. Energy crackles through her veins. She needs to meet someone there, someone to give her back more of her control. Someone who’ll understand rage, someone who’s her equal. Someone to have fun with.

Inspired, Quinn flings pretty dresses from the closet onto her bed until she finds the perfect one. She smooths her hands down the front of its flared skirt. It’s a pink strapless, and it’ll go so well with a sequined jacket. She holds the dress and the jacket up against her body and examines herself critically in the mirror. She plays with hair and makeup until she’s satisfied with her perfection and the hurt goes away. _Nothing better than a wedding for a hookup_.


	9. Rory/Candle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of religious faith, discussion of Finn’s passing, grief, brief reference to past political troubles in Ireland.

There’s no services scheduled. The sky is a flat grayish-white, and a brisk, cold wind from the wide River Liffey arises and coats Rory’s new jacket in mist. He could be in school right now - but, thirty-five hundred miles away, it’s nine o’clock in the morning, and a funeral is taking place.

He checks his watch. Averting his eyes, he jogs lightly past the graves lined up on either side of the path. At the blue door, Rory looks left and right, jiggles its handle, and finding it open, slips inside.

St. Michan’s is an ancient church. It’s stood witness to one thousand years of Irish history, much of it turbulent, divisive, violent. If this place could stand this long, I can stand this. Gray pillars hold up the roof, topped with chubby-cheeked angels. The place is empty, dank and dark. It feels a bit bare, which strikes him as odd. There’s very little decoration, apart from some intricate stained glass windows in vivid blue and red and yellow. The skin on the back of his neck crawls. There are crypts below, open to the public, but Rory ignores the entrance and instead moves forward, finds a pew close to the back.

It’s not like his church at home, with its plain stone altar, carved with crosses; a statue of Jesus, another of the Blessed Virgin, and rows upon rows of tealight candles, flickering cheerful yellow tongues of light. You could light one, always, in memory of a friend who’s passed.

He slouches forward. There are candles present, but they’re further up at the front. He finds a cigarette lighter in his pocket. The proximity of the flame burns his thumb, so he stares down at his knees, lips moving, and in between every sentence or two he flicks it again, once, twice, three times. The noise echoes up and down the rows.

Someone sits down behind him, leans forward, and whispers in his ear:

“Are you all right, son?”

Rory’s head snaps up and the lighter drops to the floor, clattering against the flags. “No.” He turns around, puts an arm around the back of his pew:

“Vicar?”

His dress proclaims him to be one. He inclines a silvery head. “Do you need counsel?”

“No. I would like to be alone, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” he says, but he doesn’t move away. Rory turns back to face the front. He raises his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling - plain, like everything else in here.

Aloud, Rory says, face dull: “Do things happen for a reason?”

“Yes,” and since the vicar is behind him, it feels like it’s a real disembodied voice talking. “And no. Whatever the reason, it is for us to find the strength to go on. I find it in my faith.”

“I have faith. I can survive,” Rory says, “but I should be elsewhere, helping my friends in America. My friend there - he died.”

“My condolences, son,” the vicar says gently. “Were you close?”

“No,” Rory says. It sounds abrupt and harsh, but that’s the truth: Rory and Finn weren’t friends friends. Finn had had better ones. “He looked after me for a bit, while I was studying in Ohio. He was the man.”

“The man?” the vicar queries. “What does that mean?”

“I looked up to him.” Rory eyes the lighter. “I wanted to be him.”

“And are you?”

“No.”

“You can only be yourself,” the vicar says. “Was he a good man? A man of faith?”

“Yes,” Rory says, and his throat closes up, makes it hard to swallow. “He didn’t go to church, but he included me. I was lonely and I missed home.”

“He believed in you.”

“Yes. And I missed him, but we both were busy. Took too much effort to keep up as much as we wanted to.”

“Ah,” the vicar says, “so you’re haunted, too.”

“Today, I am. Maybe I wouldn’t be thinking these things if I were there, at the funeral. I’d be busy. Useful.”

“I think your prayers here are just as useful.”

“Maybe.”

“I think they would want you there, if you could. Have you talked to your friends there?”

“No.”

“I think that would be more useful.”

“Maybe.”

“Being present does not mean you need be in person. You are here - “ the vicar pauses - “you are thinking of him, of the times you had together, and so are they. Those prayers go up to God, both theirs and yours.”

“He is everywhere,” Rory echoes.

“Correct. It does not take away your sorrow, but it is a comfort. ”

Rory closes his eyes “Some. I know from church - it brings me closer together - to them. Yes. ”

“You should contact them,” the vicar says. “You knew him, so you are part of them, whether you feel like you are, or not. Even if you are here and they are far away.”

“Won’t it be awkward?”

“No,” and Rory feels the vicar’s smile. “They will know why you are there. They most likely wonder why you haven’t called.”

“I will, then,” he says. “After I pray. I will.”

The vicar’s clothes rustle as he gets up. “What was his name?” he asks.

“Finn Hudson.”

“He’s a son of Ireland,” the vicar says, with conviction.

“His mother came from - er, Toledo?”

“It does not matter,” the vicar says, “if he was from there, or not, or Irish, or not. He was your friend. We will pray for him and his family at our services next Sunday.” He kneels down to tie his shoe.

“Thank you,” Rory says, startled. He hadn’t expected such kindness.

“You are welcome to come, too.”

“I’m Catholic. I’m not from Dublin - just going to university here.”

Religion can still be a tender subject. Rory flinches, but the vicar doesn’t miss a beat. “You are always welcome,” he repeats, and passes over the lighter he picked up. “It does not matter. If you are of faith, as Finn was, you need not - “ he leans down to look at him, straight in the eyes - “be alone.” With a pat on the shoulder, he moves away.

Rory looks up again at the stained glass windows. The light streaming in feels warm. In his pocket, he nestles the lighter next to his iPod and puts his headphones in. “[Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuDqHtAR6L8)” cues up, and he ducks his head to pray. Everyone in Glee sings it with him as his lips move, and peace finds Rory at last.


	10. Joe/Sister

“You promised you’d take me to see _Jack the Giant Killer_ ,” his little sister pouts. “I don’t wanna wait here. It’s so boring.”

Joe looks back at the girls, who are running through their half of the Hall of Fame routine, then back down to his sister’s ponytailed head. “I know, Mal,” Joe says soothingly, “I forgot I had Glee practice. They really need me to make twelve members for Regionals.”

“They forget about you all the time,” says Mallory spitefully. She’s seven years old, and treats mean a lot to her. His dad’s Bible-selling business isn’t doing well, so to get the money for the tickets, she’d patiently done little chores for the neighbors and counted greedily as her spare change slowly filled up the jar.

“They don’t forget about me,” Joe says. The girls’ purple skirts swirl in the lights, and his toes itch.

To be perfectly honest, he didn’t want to see that movie, and that was probably why he’d forgotten to tell her to pick another day - that, and the fact that they’d had been in rehearsals for days and days and Joe had gotten home late every single night and fallen into bed (or on top of his homework) as soon as he could. Glee took up a lot of his time, and Mallory looked like she’d resented it.

“They’re my friends. I need them, and they need me, you know?”

“I’m your friend, too,” Mallory protests, holding Joe’s hand tight. “And you shouldn’t break promises to your friends. You knew I wanted to see it, you did.”

“Right.” Joe kneels down so he’s more in her line of sight. He doesn’t know how to explain it. When he first got to McKinley he’d been completely overwhelmed by how different everything was - students talking back to teachers, food that wasn’t good, hateful gossip - and he got weird looks sometimes, well, a lot, because of his dreads, his guitar, and his faith. But Glee had taken him in right away, like a brother, and to have an island in a sea of different was reassuring, and safe, and calm. Joe flashes a smile up to the girls on stage, and the guys taking a rest, pulling on their water bottles.

Mallory glares at him. Joe feels remorseful. This is his little sister, whom he loved, too. He’d held her after she was born, and Joe remembers her plump cheeks, the hiccups, and the soft little yawn that put his heart into hers.

Mallory deserves to be treated honestly, too. He gently clasps her hand in both of his.

“Look,” Joe says carefully, keeping his voice neutral. “I forgot. That’s the truth. I know you worked so hard earning the money for the tickets, but I forgot about the day.”

“Well, why didn’t you say you forgot it was today? You’re only human,” says Mallory, searching his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Joe sighs. “We’ll see that movie tomorrow, okay? For sure.”

“We’re up soon, Joe.” Blaine arrives at his side and claps Joe heartily on the back. He showers a dazzling smile down at Mallory, who looks up, catches the charm drifting off of him in waves, and promptly turns into a puddle of infatuated girl.

“Well! Who’s this?” asks Blaine. He winks.

“I’m Mallory,” she giggles, and steps in front of Joe to make a sweeping curtsey. “I’m waiting for my brother Joe to finish rehearsal.”

“What a coincidence!” Blaine says heartily. “It’s Mallory Appreciation Night here at practice, but only Mallorys who are related to Joe can sit right up at the front. I can’t believe Joe didn’t tell you about it.” He chucks her under the chin.

“Really?” Mallory says, dark eyes wide as saucers. “Joe told me I was just gonna wait for him.”

“You’re obviously the guest of honor,” Joe coughs. “I forgot that too. I was gonna surprise you.”

“You’re in for a treat.” He escorts Mallory to the center seat. “And after we finish the run-through, you get to tell us if you liked it or didn’t like it.”

“Because only Mallorys like me get to do that,” Mallory says gravely.

Blaine’s face is so serious that Joe has real difficulty choking down his laugh. “Naturally, my lady. Here is your seat of honor. Come on, Joe, let’s go stretch.”

Mallory follows the girls intently up on stage with her eyes. “Thank you,” Joe stage-whispers.

“No problem.” Blaine hisses back, behind his hand. “I’d have to wait for Cooper during his rehearsals at school. I get it.”

“Your friends dance so pretty,” Mallory breathes. She jumps up from her seat and starts doing an enthusiastic, if clumsy, rendition of the girls’ moves. Her slender arms wave and weave and her skirt twirls about her form. She looks like a young willow tree, and it’s all Joe can do to choke back sudden tears.


	11. Finn/Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is cracky. I always also thought it'd be funny if Puckzilla was a thing, so...

Finn tags along for Puck’s first ever weekend house-sitting gig.

“This house is really nice,” Finn says, awed. The Morgans’ house has a front foyer with polished brass fittings, hardwood floors, and one of those circular wooden staircases he’s only seen in movies. Finn recognizes the painting hanging in the hallway; it was some autumn forest scene, featured on a local commercial: “Hand-Painted Oil Exhibit! $69!”. He makes a sharp left to join Puck in the den and drops his bag of tortilla chips onto the floor. “We could play football in that dining room, if we cleared that fancy table out.”

“We have to be good this time.” Puck says seriously. “I want this to work out.”

“This new you is weird,” says Finn, with a sideways glance. He lands on the sofa cushion opposite Puck’s. LIke everything else in here, it’s shiny and rich looking and impossibly plush. “It’s like you and then it’s _you_.”

Puck makes the old scowl at Finn, and that’s when they both laugh. Puck stretches luxuriously and props his feet up on the coffee table. “Well, duh, I put a coaster under my beer. That’s what I meant.”

“Of course that’s what you meant,” Finn shrugs. 

There’s a huge flat-screen table, an X-Box, tons of movies, and what looks like to be the boss of stereo systems. “So, really, no party later like good ol’ times?” Finn asks. He rubs his hands together. “My swim trunks are in my car.”

“Nope, dude,” Puck says, a little regretfully. “Anyway, you’re a teacher, so you can’t do that kid stuff anymore. Just us and chips and music. I’ll order pizza later. What are we gonna rock out to?”

Finn grins, takes out his iPhone, and slides it into a dock for playing. “Uh, the only song that works?” and Puck raises his bottle as four familiar thumps echo from the speakers: “Oh, hell yeah. My man, you always have the best taste.”

Finn plays some raucous air guitar as the song starts up, and they howl like there’s twenty thousand screaming fans bouncing up and down on the ground below them, on a rickety stage covered with mikes and speakers and wires:

_Slow ride / Take it easy_   
_Slow ride / Take it easy_   
_Slow ride / Take it easy_   
_Slow ride / Take it easy_

“This is great, dude!” Finn yells. “Best job ever!” But out of the corner of his eye, the end of a black and gray banded tail wiggles from side to side and it’s accompanied by claws clicking against the hardwood and then a freakin’ yellow spotted five foot dinosaur walks in -

“Shit! What the hell is that?” Finn jumps out of his skin and hops up on the couch before he can get eaten.

Puck turns down the volume with the remote. “Puckzilla doesn’t like loud noises.” Puckzilla surges forward, really fast for a dinosaur, and rubs his face on Puck’s jeans leg.

Finn looks at Puck, and then down at Puckzilla, with abject horror. “Is that yours?”

“He’s a black-throated monitor,” Puck says. “Don’t be a _philistine_ , dude. Pet-sitting’s an add-on to the house-sitting thing. And if I’m the only house-sitter in town who can also deal with Puckzilla, I’ve always got an in.”

“You sure that’s not a komodo dragon, dude? Those things spit poison,” says Finn, who creeps over to the side of the couch furthest away from Puckzilla.

“He’s totally harmless.” Puckzilla puts a clawed paw up on Puck’s knee. “He’s just big, and he doesn’t care what I call him. What’s not to love?” Puckzilla gazes up adoringly and Puck leans down to scratch at the top of the lizard’s bumpy, gunmetal-gray head. “We just gotta toss him some rats and make sure he doesn’t get into the recycling.”

Finn flops back down on the couch and shudders. “Is this, like, a Jurassic Park house? You told me this would be an easy fifty bucks.”

“I never said it was gonna be easy,” Puck snorts. “He likes hiding behind heavy furniture, and we gotta clip his claws at some point, so I hope teaching those kids gave you a tough skin because shit, his scratches are legend. But this is gonna be a great story. I’m totally putting this in my screenplay.”

Puckzilla climbs into Finn’s lap before he can think up a protest. It flicks out a grayish fettucine tongue at his face. It’s not wet. It’s actually sort of friendly. Finn thinks he can see a smile there before it closes his wet, brownish eyes. “At least this weekend won’t be boring,” Finn says, and Puckzilla promptly falls asleep on his chest.

“He likes you, dude,” Puck says. “See, it might be easy after all.”

“Only if you know how to handle him,” says Finn.


	12. Kurt/Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Past Kadam (breakup) mention, if you're sensitive.

Kurt’s not regretful about how it all went down. You see, Kurt realized, in a flash, how the story ends - joyfully, full of light - knowing with sudden insight whose heart would sing with his forever, beat by beat.

It probably sounded crazy. It sounded crazy to Adam. “We were dating, and you come back engaged? You’re _out_ of the Apples.” And despite Adam’s palpable anger, his hurt, it was the right thing to do. Just do it quickly. Just rip the Band-Aid off, and it will throb and bleed and, over time, form a hardened scar that smoothes out with fresh, faintly marked skin. They’ll both be better off. (And Adam will find someone else, anyway. Adam will find someone else who’ll suit him and be real, not just a creature of shadows and lights.)

So, he did it, but it was hard to explain just how he knew that Blaine was the answer, and that was really why Adam had been so belligerent. You can’t tick off the proofs with your fingers - one, two, three - and let the mountain of evidence do the talking for you. It wasn’t that simple.

It’s hard to explain to anyone that it’s instinct. It’s magic. It’s the scent and taste and touch of home that clings to Blaine’s clothes. It lingers in the salty dip of skin between neck and shoulder and nestles between his collarbones. It ghosts down his stomach, raising heat between his thighs and in his hair and _ohhhhhh_. It melts to liquid in that throaty, rumbly after-sex laugh that cuts Kurt straight to the core. It’s the same laugh Blaine makes after Kurt tells him a funny story about school, too. It's the same laugh he makes after he gives an amazing performance. It’s fuzzy, and not at all logical, but it’s true magic nonetheless.

Blaine’s fallen asleep, long, dark eyelashes fanning his cheeks, chest rising and falling underneath their shared sheets. Those lashes slay him, but as much as Kurt wants to stroke the thick line of brow and down his nose and the curve of his jaw, he doesn’t. You shouldn’t disturb such calm. Blaine has magic, too, and having him here in New York restores him, connects him to everything else -

\- but the day to day was so... day to day. It was a work in progress. Not remotely like magic at all. Toothpaste in the sink. Empty orange juice cartons. Taking out the trash. Paying bills. Stress. Everyone's moods, his included. Sure, having Rachel and Santana (and Sam and Artie) here in the loft complicated matters, but it still takes effort to learn to live with each other. Working at them wasn't something that was wrapped up neatly and never revisited.

It’s easy being romantic. It’s the intimacy that’s hard.

Sometimes Kurt wishes that could be magical so they could just fast-forward over all the tough parts -

\- _but the tough parts, Kurt? The work? That's the most important part_.

(Movies never go into that.)

With a tired sigh, Kurt turns out the overhead light and feels for his pajamas in the dark. They'll figure it out. They're both worth it. He crawls into bed alongside Blaine and wraps his arm around his waist, and Blaine mutters something, puts his hand on his. His eyeshade blocks out the glaring yellow city lights, but the warmth of Blaine’s body next to his finally lulls Kurt back to sleep.


	13. Mercedes/Muse

Mercedes falls in love on her seventh birthday.

She’s a generous spirit and she loves the others, too. Etta Jones, and Tina Turner (bless her heart) and Aretha the flawless Queen, and later, much later, Destiny’s Child, En Vogue, TLC, Mariah Carey, and Beyonce, solo and proud. And Dreamgirls, as she said in her Grammys speech, was the soundtrack of her life.

But it wasn’t right to forget Whitney, not that she could; her music flowed in her blood. Her mom would sit by the window, hug her arms around her bump, and sing to the unborn Mercedes as she swam in a silent sea: “And I’m / saving all my love for you.”

When Mercedes turned seven, her parents gave her copies of all the albums. She played the debut album when she was doing homework, belted it out in the shower, hummed it on the way to choir practice, and ran it on constant repeat when she was feeling sad or betrayed or happy. Mercedes knew, instinctively, the difference between a badly written song, a choppy song sung well, and a well-written song sung poorly, but every single song on that album was smooth, silky, energetic, and well, the songs on Whitney’s debut album just fit all fit together.

(And, then, later, when she falls for a certain blond-headed boy of our acquaintance - twice - it feels just like when she listens to it: falling, filling up a space that she hadn’t known was empty, and then a soft sigh to know when everything finally found its place. It’s what she plays on the evening before they made love for the first time, and it’s what she brings to the hospital for the birth of their first child.)

But there’s more: little Mercedes would switch to the second one, the one with I’m Your Baby Tonight, and then the Bodyguard soundtrack. Waiting to Exhale. My Love is Your Love. She’d sing Mariah’s part in When You Believe and pretend they, she and Whitney, were duetting instead, up on a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans. That's when the tears would flow.

Whitney understood everything. She was soulful and compassionate. She was Mercedes’ best friend, even if she wasn’t perfect. Her troubles just showed that she was fragile, and Lord knows, they were all small and weak at times and did and said ugly things. Whitney sang even at the lowest points of her life, and her music brought her back up. She didn’t apologize for wanting what was due to her, and that’s why it had been so surprisingly easy to leave Glee for the Troubletones. Mercedes knew her gift, and Whitney did, too.

The best daydream of all was the tribute concert. Mercedes would sing Greatest Love of All, to a packed house. Then Whitney would float up on stage and give her a hug, one big voice to another.

It was Whitney she thought of when she was first offered that contract, and Whitney she thought of when she broke it. Whitney came to her at night, whispered to her the hints of all the songs she’d never lived to sing herself: “Carry on, child,” and Mercedes awoke, haunted and alone and she’d wrap an arm around Sam’s solid, sleeping form, bury her face in the back of his shoulder and will herself to remember just what Whitney had said.

Once the songs arose to the surface, Mercedes wrote like a woman on fire, and when she recorded the tracks, Whitney nodded and smiled. When the time came for her to work out what she might say for her Grammys speech, Mercedes wrote her thanks to God and her family and her friends and her management, and then, simply, “And last of all, thanks to her. She knows who she is.”


	14. Santana/Clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Brief reference to semi-public sex.

When she’s with Brittany, Santana feels fresh, like she just stepped out of the shower. Renewed. 

Brittany brings a cupcake to school for Santana’s birthday. It’s vanilla flavored and smells of pure sugar. The iced “S” is red and straggly and the “B” is blue, so fat its curves meld together. Multicolored sprinkles cover the white frosting underneath and linger down the front of Britt's Cheerio uniform.

The cupcake is delicious. It’s from a box, but it’s special because Britt made it for her. Well, Britt claims Lord Tubbington made it, because he loves Santana, just like Britt loves Santana. 

Brittany laughs, eyes dancing between her bangs, after Santana insists on splitting it with her. While they’re cramming their halves into their mouths, a blip of frosting smears across the top of Britt’s upper lip.

Santana thinks about leaning over and kissing it off. She thinks about study sessions that devolve into secret-talk. Talking about nice things is easy, but even after Santana spills over with some of the mean things she swears just happen while she’s there, Britt just smiles in that innocent, all forgiving way. “I understand, Santana,” she says. “That’s just the way it is. I love you.”

Britt takes a long drink of Dr. Pepper and touches the tip of her tongue to the luscious blob of white. Santana looks away.

There are days when she wishes she could see in herself what Britt sees. Days when she's so fucking pissed at the world she bites some random kid's head off. Days when she yanks Puck into a bathroom stall and rage-fucks him. Days when she feels like she has to manipulate everyone just to get what she needs - what she really wants. Including Brittany, sad to tell, although there's a growing tide of feeling inside that tells her stop it, she deserves better than this. Better than you. 

“Don’t be sad,” says Britt bouncily, “It’s your birthday.” She leans in, turns her head and kisses her cheek sweetly. Santana can feel the brush of her Cheerios curls, close by, and the imprint of her mouth, sticky-smeared; a soft, warm breath.

Britt really believes that she's better. Can act better. Can be better. Can be true. She sees potential or she sees only good. And before such purity of thought, Santana can only feel humble, which is what you would feel if your layers were peeled away, one by one, to reveal a newer, cleaner, truer self. 

Britt is, indeed, very special. One day she’ll have the courage to say it. Fuck the world what they think when she reaches in for a full, public kiss, one that she’ll return. But right now, while they’re demolishing the last of her birthday treat, she’s content to bathe in Brittany’s affection, knowing she’s got no sins in her eyes.


	15. Ryder/Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to Ryder's past experience of sexual abuse. Abuse disclosure. References to the catfishing plot.

Ryder has no idea why he keeps secrets from his dad. Well, his dad is a really hard act to follow. His dad’s a freakin’ PhD. He’s nice to everybody. His students even like him, and he’s provided everything Ryder ever needed or wanted. But he does ask a lot of questions and monitors his Internet and sometimes a teenager just needs his space. So, just as is normal, Ryder and his dad drift apart. Just a bit.

His dyslexia, though, grows to be an issue. (Jake did the right thing, and Ryder will always be grateful, despite what happens between them later.) Things move quickly. Finn calls the house, and then the special education director calls his dad at work, and Ryder’s dad looks at him sadly and asks: “Why didn’t you tell us you were having trouble with reading, son?”

Ryder looks up. “I don’t know. I thought I could handle it..”

“Ryder,” his dad says softly, “please, please. It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re going to get through this.”

It’s the aftereffects of this makes him think about revealing his second secret, and that’s why Katie, when she came along, was such a safe harbor: she understands, so when Ryder finally taps it all out he imagines the guilt will wash away and then he’ll be able to find the right words to tell his dad. And then Katie gets revealed and - despite the betrayal, the fact she lied to him and was so kind and safe online, a different person - well, he can’t fault her for keeping her promise. She never told, after all.

Life catches up, and he pushes it away. He says nothing until the summer before freshman year. On the morning of the day they’re set to move him to UPenn, as a matter of fact. Ryder writes it out first, painstakingly, by hand, to make sure he gets everything right, but halfway through, right when the words start clotting up in his throat, his dad chokes, holds up his hand - “Wait, Ryder, wait - “ and drops his fork on the floor.

It’s the loudest clunk Ryder’s ever heard. He winces, and looks away, but that’s the time his dad needs to shuffle over to the other side of the breakfast table and stoop over him. He puts his arms around Ryder, holds him tight, and says, thickly, “You’re all right. You’re all right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Ryder buries his head in his dad’s shoulder, and they cry together, quietly.

Honestly, he didn’t know why he hadn’t said anything earlier. If he had, she might have gone to jail sooner. Ryder is past punishing himself for what happened, but he’s glad his dad didn’t hate him for not being a man, for staying silent until after the statute of limitations ran out. All it took, actually, was for Ryder to be brave, and the gulf between him and his dad - the one that was mostly in Ryder’s head - is bridged in a quiet hug and the simple truth: “It wasn’t your fault.”

In therapy, Ryder talks about what happens, and, little by little, he starts talking about Unique. His dad and his therapist say a lot about Ryder’s bravery, (and yeah, it’s tested him, even as it’s given him trust issues he’ll always struggle with), but what he doesn’t tell them, at first, is how much Unique helped him with it until he had the strength to open up.

When Unique kisses him, on the mornings after she stays over, or he stays over, he feels the energy crackle between them. She puts a spring in his step, even if the day that follows isn’t so great. And when she comes home - when she cries, or when she bounds in, happy as a clam after tearing a new song to shreds - it tears his heart in two, or it puts the pieces back together.

His dad likes Unique; he’s said as much, but he doesn’t know her story. Time’s creeping up on them and he’s going to have to say it soon. Ryder slides out the front drawer of his desk and takes out a sparkly little ring, runs it between his fingers. His dad will be cool, he thinks. His dad is a good guy.


	16. Sugar/Happy Birthday to You

“It’s my birthday today!”

She turns around, crosses her legs for effect (so everyone can see her new Cynthia Vincents), and looks out expectantly for her cue over the sea of blank faces.

Mr. Hofflemeyer makes a mildly scandalized frown. “Come on, folks, let’s do this!” He waves his hands like a conductor. His mustache wiggles. A few stragglers take up the song, too, but they wither and trail away, so by the end of the song it’s just her teacher’s thin tenor finishing it off.

His face is pained and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Sugar.” He pauses, mouth open, but the bell rings to cut him off; that’s the universal signal to get the hell out of here. A few kids mutter “Happy birthday,” under their breath, as they shove their book bags by her on their way out.

Sugar’s mouth twists up. She’s still got her sass, so by the time her disappointment is well and truly hidden, she sails out, still queen of the room.

\- - - - -

“It’s my birthday today!”

Sugar yells it. Some kids turn around from their places in the lunch line, and the cafeteria monitors give her annoyed glances. Of course there’s the kids sitting at the tables closest to the entrance, and they’re paying attention, sort of. They look a little bored, but they won’t be, Sugar thinks, after her surprise.

But everyone else is laughing and talking amongst themselves and - oh my freaking God, Sugar realizes, with horror - they’re already eating the Godiva samplers she’d had taped to the underside of each bench. Their faces and fingers are smeared with syrup and sprinkles. A ragged cheer of “Sugar!” echoes from somewhere in the back. It sounds like Stoner Brett and his gross friends, but they’d cheer for anything, especially food. They don’t count.

No, the worst part of this is that everyone was supposed to wait. Sugar flounces away, tray in hand.

\- - - - -

“It’s my birthday today!”

Sugar bursts into the choir room like a bullet. “Hey, Glee club!” She raises her voice and repeats it, happily, “It’s my birthday today!”

She flings her arms out. Everyone’s already sitting down, and they have their super serious “we’re gonna have an intervention” faces on. Sugar quails. She’s been around the New Directions long enough to know that their interventions, besides being really boring, also mean they’re worried about you. And duh, today, Sugar has nothing to be worried about.

“Well, aren’t you guys all a bunch of buzzkills,” she snarks, and pulls her zebra-striped jacket closed. “It’s my day! Why aren’t we celebrating?” Her purse slides down her arm. Sugar mentally counts out her cash: if she has to, she tells herself, she’ll buy herself a real Happy Birthday.

“We know,” says Sam (who’s using his Lurch voice), muffled from behind the door she used. He pushes it away, and Blaine bounces up and shuts the other one. And then, with a dramatic flourish and the giantest of giant grins, Blaine shuts down the overhead lights -

"Wait - what are you doing?” Sugar squeals.

_Click._

A golden spotlight shines down, and Sugar’s showered in this wonderful delicious warm light and oh - it feels so good, so good, the best thing she’s felt all day and from her friends - from the people she cares the most about - oh, it’s so good. Sugar never wants to leave. Her purse drops to the floor, topples over.

And then there’s Tina: “And now, from the McKinley High School New Directions, _heeeeere’s_ Sugar Motta! Sing us something for your birthday!”

Artie leads everyone in whooping and cheering. “Sing, Sugar! Sing!” Ryder and Jake are chanting, in the back: “Sugar! Sugar! Sugar!” Joe blows her a kiss, and Marley - she’s clapping too and there’s maybe tears in her eyes? Sugar can’t tell. The light’s too bright.

“Oh - you guys knew,” Sugar breathes out, “you knew!”

“Uh, duh,” Kitty snaps, “anyone who knows you would know that. So go on, hot mama, show us how it’s done.”

“We love you,” Marley beams. “Happy birthday, Sugar!” And everyone claps and cheers and wolf-whistles: “Sugar! Sugar!”

Sugar clears her throat and thrusts her hip out to the side. She’s still queen of the room -

\- and she _nails_ it.

\- - - - -

“So, really, how’d you guys know?” Sugar asks.

She leans her elbows on the piano. Blaine trails wandering scales up and down the gleaming keys.

“Well - “ he pauses, somewhere between high and low - “we know what you’ve always wanted - a solo - and what better occasion for it than your birthday?”

“It was so awesome,” Sugar admits. It might be that she’ll never feel that again - all that appreciation, all that love and applause. She tucks the memory away. “Nobody got that, except you guys.”

“We might be everywhere next year,” Blaine says. “We need to make every minute count, and you’ll always be a part of us. So let’s do one more thing, okay, before we go meet Sam and Tina at Breadstix?”

“What?” she says, blankly.

“Sing with me,” Blaine smiles, and dips his head, starts humming.

“Really? But I can’t sing, and you’re, like the best singer here.”

Blaine tilts his head and his hazel-gold eyes twinkle at her. “You’ve gotten a lot better, and anyway, what matters right now is that you’re my friend - our friend. So c’mon - “ he grins irresistibly - “One more time. Just for me?”

Sugar feels a twinge of sadness. He’s right. It might be the last time. “Well - okay! Okay!”

“What do you want to sing? Birthday girl’s choice,” Blaine teases.

“Ummmm…” Sugar muses, “I love _Toy Story_ , but… ”

“ _You’ve Got a Friend In Me_ , it is,” Blaine hums. “Happy birthday, Sugar.”

“This is the best birthday ever," Sugar breathes. "Thanks."


	17. Brittany/Worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Racism.

Tina worries her.

\- - - - -

 **From: Britt (June 14, 7:09 pm)**  
I think kitties should stay together.

 **From: Tina (June 14, 10:31 pm)**  
...What?

 **From: Britt (June 14, 10:33 pm)**  
If one cat likes another, they should stay together.

 **From: Tina (June 14, 10:34 pm)**  
… Are you calling Mike and me cats?

 **From: Britt (June 14, 10:34 pm)**  
Just like those clocks.

 **From: Tina (June 14, 10:37 pm)**  
… Neko clocks? Britt, for the last time, I’m not Japanese.

 **From: Britt (June 14, 10:38 pm)**  
That doesn’t matter. I’ve seen those clocks in Chinese restaurants.

 **From: Tina (June 14, 10:45 pm)**  
…. I’m not Chinese either.

 **From: Britt (June 14, 10:46 pm)**  
Not exactly. That’s not what I meant.

 **From: Tina (June 14, 10:50 pm)**  
I know what you meant, Britt. Thanks for your input. I guess.

\- - - - -

Britt gives Tina’s last text a frustrated frown, but when the Glee club goes out to see Brave a week later, Tina doesn’t mention it when they hug. And that worries her, especially as Tina doesn’t look like she’s slept since then. It’s divided the group and that bothers her too. Rachel, Tina, Kurt, and Mercedes flounce off to sit in the next row over. Blaine makes an apologetic frown before drifting off to join them, and everyone else shrugs and clusters around Mike, who, just like Tina, isn’t saying much, but is putting on a much stronger front.

Then again, it doesn’t look like Tina wants to talk to her. Britt doesn’t press the issue. She’s not ready.

\- - - - -

 **From: Britt (September 10, 5:40 pm)**  
I’m sorry my Rachel was better than yours.

 **From: Tina (September 10, 5:42 pm)**  
You’re not sorry, so don’t pretend like you were.

 **From: Britt (September 10, 5:42 pm)**  
No, I am sorry. Not for me, for you.

 **From: Tina (September 10, 5:46 pm)**  
Rachel told me I was going to be the star. Not you.

 **From: Britt (September 10, 5:49 pm)**  
I’m already a star. I didn’t need Rachel to tell me that.

 **From: Tina (September 10, 5:50 pm)**  
We are not talking.

\- - - - -

Britt shakes her head. If Tina would let her do another Fondue for Two, they’d figure out why Tina wasn’t listening, but Tina stays true to her word and they don’t talk about it.

It shows in her moves, though. She’s just not dancing in her usual magical way, and Britt keeps on wanting to raise the issues, but something in her face stops her before she can find better words to say what needs to be said.

\- - - - -

One afternoon, Britt figures this is going to be her last time to talk. Tina’s sitting in the choir room, alone, after stacking up all the chairs, and her head is buried deep in English homework. It’s as good a time as any. She’s leaving for MIT tomorrow.

“Hey, Tina.” Britt falls into a chair next to her.

Tina looks up and sniffles a little, closing her text with a bang. “Hey, Britt. I’m going to miss you.”  Her smile quivers and her eyes are faintly ringed by red.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. You’re just like - “ Tina looks around - “part of this place. Part of my family, even if we didn’t talk that much. Or mostly argued, but you know, we danced and sang together, so that counts for a lot.”

Britt shrugs. “I never figured out how to say it.”

Tina looks at her curiously. “I guess you could try… now? I mean, you’re leaving tomorrow.”

Britt says, “Are you going to be mad again?”

Tina shrugs. “Maybe.” She bites her lips and turns, looks at her through her lashes. “I know you don’t mean it that way, but it comes off upsetting, I guess.”

She blinks. “LIke when?”

Tina throws up a hand. “Uhhh, like all the time. Like after Mike and me broke up, and after the New Rachel competition.”

“I was just trying to tell you the truth,” Britt says, astonished. “I never got why you didn’t get it.”

Tina sighs. “You told me Mike and me were Asian so we should stay together. That’s racist.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, well, what did you mean then?” Tina’s eyes flash.

“You two are like cats,” Britt tries. “Cats that are, like, the same, I mean, you’re both Asian, but you’re also the same, which isn’t the same thing.”

“Uh, we’re not really the same, Britt,” Tina says, but her frown softens a touch. “I mean, we’re not that similar. As it turns out.”

“You two can’t see it and you’re not, like, exactly the same, but you belong together. And then, the dancing,” Britt qualifies. “Your dancing’s great. And you and Mike were great dancers. I mean, not as good as me. And you haven’t danced great lately.”

Tina’s lip curls in a snarl. “Getting mad now.”

“But - “ and she hastens to re-explain it for the millionth time, before Tina can get her head all filled up with steam - “dancing’s like being yourself, and you’re just not being yourself.”

And that’s when Tina _explodes_.

“Yeah, well, ever since you told me I shouldn’t be an actor, I’ve been a little annoyed with you.”

Her words sting. Tina glares angrily, crosses her arms, and goes silent. If eyes could kill, she’d be gone. Britt, for her part, goes bewildered. “When did I say that?”

“Uh, ‘round Christmas, when you and Sam thought we were all going to have the Mayan apocalypse,” Tina snaps.

“Oh, yeah, that. I meant what I said.”

Tina blinks. “Oh. Well, it’s too late. I let you rattle me and I’ve been rattled ever since, so if this is your sucky way of apologizing, I guess, apology accepted.”

Britt frowns. She didn’t mean for this to get upsetting again. “But Lucy Liu and B.D.Wong all had people say stuff like that to them, you know? I mean, I was just trying to tell you what everyone else would say.”

“It’s too late, Britt,” Tina says, with finality, and it’s the look in her eyes that finally softens Britt enough up to say, “I’m sorry.”

“This time? Are you really?”

“I mean this.” Britt turns in her chair to finally face Tina, head on. “It’s never too late. And if what I said made you not be yourself, I’m sorry.”

“I guess that’s a better apology,” Tina allows. “I mean… you might be right, maybe it is a pipe dream. What are my chances, Britt? Of being a star like you guys? Like Blaine and Rachel? I mean - that’s what I want - that’s what I’ve always wanted.”

“You’re already a star,” Britt smiles. “When you figure that out, your dancing will follow, right? And then you’ll marry Mike and have Asian children.”

“Um, okay? I can get with that. Except the Mike part.”

“I think…” Britt trails off, “I think what I meant to say is that I could be wrong. And maybe I was wrong. So you should go show me I was. About you and acting, I mean.”

“I don’t know, Britt,” Tina says. “I still don’t know. I still want to act. Everything about this dream shakes me up and you - you just remind me all the time of it.”

Britt says, gently, “I don’t know, either, and that’s why you should figure it out. I’m going to MIT tomorrow, so I can figure it out.”

Tina sighs. “Everything’s scary, isn’t it? Hey - keep up with me, while you’re gone. Even with - all of this, I’m going to miss you. You’re still family to me.”

Britt leans down to give her a hug. “I’ll miss you too, Tina. And I’m still going to worry.”

“I’ll figure it out. Thanks.” Tina smiles.


	18. Jake/Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This fic is really part 1 of the Marley fic, so if it feels incomplete, that’s because it is. Also, this is a fantasy AU.

Their second child is a prince.

He's born of air and fire. No - he springs from lightning. As he moves, his limbs slice through the atmosphere, crackling, as clean and precise as honed steel through flesh.

The prince is sharp and restless. He's restless because he knows he won't inherit the kingdom, so he flits from one pastime to another, one imagined adventure to another. He's important, just not important enough, and that leaves him just enough time to stir up trouble. And, to smooth over the hiccups, he showers that dazzling charm around so the people won't forget his smile and will forget his mistakes.

The girls distract him from that unsettling feeling he carries with him always, the feeling that he doesn't quite belong, one foot in either land. He's loved, and he has everything he ever needs or wants in a land that's practically his, ripe, plump and open. But it's not enough. It's not challenging enough, because if it was, he'd stop feeling like he should be elsewhere, and he'd settle down as a proper second son should, rich and happy and bored.

So he does what any bright young rich thing would. Petty theft, first. Playing jokes. Fighting. And when that grows stale, he remembers the maze of dank tunnels lurking underneath the castle - the ones that his old nurse says lead out of the palace, towards a more exciting life.

He falls into the habit of wandering the stews of the city, far, far away from the cool grandeur of the palace, as the tangle of the streets straighten themselves out. He imagines himself being followed, and the thrill of it surges through his veins. It's fun to tuck a dagger into a sheath and pull a hood over his (rather recognizable) head. He learns to spoon greasy stew out of a wooden bowls with dried crusts of bread. He watches strangers drink in dark, smelly bars amongst the rustle of rats and the whisper of foreign tongues. It's a real adventure, better than anything he's ever read in a book.

Everyone stops pretending that he's a stranger. He has more wealth than he'll ever need, and he loves to help people out, anyone. He starts making friends and his friends start to brag about their friend who looks a lot like a certain prince.

His parents find out. He wasn't imagining it, and friends talk a lot.

The queen knows her son has inherited her generosity and her headstrong nature. The king knows his son has inherited his concern for people and his uncertainty. They're worried. They talk to him about safety and bodyguards and the nasty nature of certain types of human being. They tell him that they love him just as much as they love their older son, that he will always be important to them.

All of which he knows. He appreciates that. But now he’s enthralled. Walls can no longer keep him in and the realms keep calling him to come out. Just come out and play with us, they whisper, one last time. Go.

And so he does. One day, while a spring dawn stretches out rosy pink fingers throughout the sky, Jake doesn't return home.

His father sends out search parties to scurry up and down the roads of the kingdom. His mother offers reward after reward to whoever will bring him back. The promise of jewels and land and gold and their most fervent prayers don't succeed and eventually the claims of sightings slow down to a trickle.

On the day someone finds his bloody cloak in a puddle, the hole in his father’s heart swallows him up and tears finally fill up his mother’s beautiful brown eyes. They assume that an evil villain must have taken him away, and so they grieve.

As it turns out, she's far from a villain.


	19. Puck/Shoelaces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Reference to Finn's funeral.

Puck pops into New York a day before everyone heads back to Lima for the funeral. He and Santana and Kurt will drive and take care of Rachel in the backseat, in shifts, remind her to eat and hold her and talk about whatever needs to be talked about.

He also remembers that Shelby lives here now, and gives her a call.

“No repeats, Puck,” she says sternly.

“Nah,” Puck shrugs. It’d been hot, but he and Shelby had both been looking for something in each other, something neither of them had to give, but they’d also always have one person in common. “Can I see Beth? Just for the afternoon?”

“I suppose,” Shelby says. She doesn’t sound convinced. But Beth will have a much better life in New York, and Puck’s playing with the thought of the Air Force. It’s just not a stable living for a kid. Shelby’s her real mom. He hasn’t talked to Quinn about Shelby and Beth, doesn’t dare to, but he knows the monumental effort it took for Quinn to understand that, too.

“I’ll bring her to the studio. Come tomorrow. We’re having a little recital, 2 o’clock.”

\- - - - -

Shelby’s grown it into a neat little business and she charges those Broadway families through the nose. Brass fittings, gleaming mirrors, men and women dressed way too formally for a kids’ recital. Puck stands in the middle of the crowd surrounding the dance floor and smiles at his daughter as she enters the room, near the middle of the line.

Seeing his daughter makes him makes him feel old. Beth’s dressed in a pretty yellow slip of cotton and a blue ribbon wound about her ponytail. Puck smiles. It reminds him of Quinn. But someone’s stepped on her lace, and it’s partly unravelled. Not long enough for her to trip, but for Puck, whose eyes are trained on that - his - little girl, it’s kind of obvious.

Puck really wants to surge forward, kneel, and tie the lace back for her. There’s a bit of fussing with the music, and finally, after murmurs and awkwardness, some old guy comes on the mike: “We’re having some trouble with the music system. We’ll be on in just a second.”

He starts to push forward. The woman in front of him frowns at his mohawk. But too late: Shelby’s noticed the lace, and by the time Puck makes it, close enough for Beth to notice him, it’s already done and Shelby is picking up her daughter for a kiss. Beth throws chubby arms around Shelby’s neck and plays with her hair.

Another Puck would have just told everyone to fuck off. _But steady, Puck, control. Beth is her kid. Okay. Okay_. He’s good now. He’ll wait until after the recital’s over and then go talk to them.

Beth pops her bright eyes open and a smile of pure delight crosses her face. She puts a dimple in her rosy cheek and waves at him, and Puck blows her a kiss.


	20. Matt/Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was written before 5.11 City of Angels. Also, yes, I got the alphabet wrong and wrote the Matt fic before Marley's, sorry.

When he hears through the grapevine that McKinley’s in town for Nationals, Matt skips class to go watch a rehearsal. (It’s actually way out of character for him, but he’s got this cell biology final in the bag, and a photographic memory is extremely helpful for times like that.)

He sneaks inside the near-empty auditorium, up some winding stairs, and into a row in the balcony. From this vantage point, the dancers look like moving dolls, running swiftly through their paces like they’ve practiced this thing to death. And they probably have. Matt remembers all the hours they spent in that dimly lit choir room and that high school stage, with a different crew, but shit, that was a long time ago, and looking back at those memories now also feels like he’s watching from a distance.

There are familiar figures there, too, which reassures him a little. That’s definitely Artie, and oh, there’s Tina. As she and some guy slide out in front to duet, Matt feels a preemptory tap on his shoulder and a familiar voice sounding low and musical in his ear: “Now, I know you didn’t come in here only to see them, Matt Rutherford.”

Matt looks at her, startled. And it’s still her, dressed to kill: “Mercedes!” And he jumps up into the aisle to give her a huge bear hug, pulling her nearly up off of the balls of her feet. “It’s been forever. lady!”

“Oh, I know,” Mercedes says sympathetically, “We haven’t kept up like we should. So I knew you moved out here.” She parts from him, holds his elbows, and that glow lights up her face like a beacon. Matt’s heart flutters. “But I didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Got into pre-med at UCLA,” Matt says, with pride. “I’m aiming for med school as soon as I can get in. I’m doing research with one of my profs. Working part time. Volunteering at a hospital.”

“I knew you’d go places,” says Mercedes fondly. “You’re so smart. But, more important, do you sing?”

“Not as much anymore,” Matt admits. “I’m really busy, but I hang out with my friends at karaoke.” He casts a glance at the kids on stage. “I miss it sometimes. You can’t not.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m really busy out here, too. Working on my album, finally. Remember we used to talk about that?” She gives him a playful punch in the arm. “I’m actually gonna re-record one of the songs you helped me with, back in sophomore year - ”

“For real?” Matt’s voice rings with awe. “Who said I was going places? ‘Cause you’re shooting up into the stratosphere. You gotta let me know when it goes on sale - I’ll be first in line to buy it..”

Mercedes’ brilliant smile folds in at its (kissable) corners. “I will, but that’s been a tough road, honey. It might be years before we see that happening.”

“It all started there,” Matt says wistfully, pointing with his chin to the stage. “Can you believe it? I’m so proud of you.”

Mercedes notices. “Do you wanna go meet them? You can catch up with Tina and Artie. And everyone else is really nice. You’d love Sam.”

Matt frowns. “I don’t want to interrupt the rehearsal, and shit, that was forever ago. Isn’t it gonna be weird?”

Mercedes shakes a finger at him. “Do not tell me that. You were in Glee, so you’re in, no questions asked. Besides, you should see Tina now - she’s changed so much.” And before Matt can protest - not that he really wants to protest, his feet are moving before his brain processes it - Mercedes is yanking at his arm towards the doorway. “And you can come sing a number with us, hang out with us, come to dinner! We’ve missed you so much, Matt Rutherford.”

And I’ve missed them. “Okay,” Matt says, and he feels the old bounce coming back to re-energize his step. He lets Mercedes lead him out and down the stairs and a big grin splits his face. “I’d be glad to join you.”


End file.
